


Exformation

by odoridango



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Kitagawa pain for the soul, character backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 11:38:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7313794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/odoridango/pseuds/odoridango
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kitagawa Daiichi years two and three: a retroperspective by Kageyama Tobio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exformation

**Author's Note:**

> So this actually came about from several things. Part of it was probably just wallowing and marinating in Kitagawa pain, but this was also an attempt to address some inconsistencies/contradictions in the Kitagawa > Karasuno timeline. Like, why no intervention from the coach or teacher advisor? Exactly what catalyzed the transformation from wide-eyed first year Kageyama to grumpy, uncertain Karasuno high schooler because imo, that's a pretty huge change? Why all this emphasis on strength, and yet still a willingness to divulge messy personal background info, and a willingness to fight your senpai for the setter position rather than just assuming it's yours? And given the grounds that Oikawa left Kitagawa on, how did Kageyama's relationship with him become more antagonistic? The contrast of the narrative of having absolutely no regard for your teammates, and yet being hurt by their abandonment and immediately understanding that it was your mistake? Etcetera. 
> 
> Honestly I don't think I did an adequate job, since I think the whole situation is rather complex. The pacing is a little weird, and I probably could have been more explicit about the concepts I was batting around, but tbh I don't want to be looking at this anymore - I meant for it to be blurb but it turned into this instead. So I hope you enjoy!!
> 
> Title taken from the Monobody song of the same name, which turned out to be pretty appropriate. I should note that Kageyama's "reconfrontation" with Oikawa in the first part of the fic is definitely influenced by [slothesaurus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/slothesaurus/pseuds/slothesaurus)' fantastic Iwakage fic ["In waiting" ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6713272)(go read it!!!).

A setter’s position is the coolest. This is Tobio’s firm belief. A spiker might score the point, but a setter is needed to make it in the first place. The setter can be quiet, can be understated, and still make the largest impact in a game. The setter is a gamemaker, guiding the rhythm and flow of the game around them. Tobio likes that.

He remembers clinging to the television during national games when he was younger, watching the seamless integration of a well-oiled team, heart pounding with every play and yearning for that sort of triumph. But real life, Tobio has found, is different. Real life is full of frustration, sweat, and sore muscles, full of the smell of Salonpas and the squeak of shoes on a waxed gym floor. Real life has Oikawa Tooru, larger than life, lively and clever, impeccably intuitive and powerful. On court he is something out of a dream, honed and sharp. Watching him from the stands, Tobio could only ever clench at the fabric of his gym shorts, full to the brim with the sort of awe and respect that made him awkward and bold, wanting to get better, grow closer.

And now, bowing in a line with all his other teammates, saying, almost woodenly, “Congratulations, senpai,” watching Oikawa smile and laugh and goof around with all the other third years, slim plastic tubes in their hands, he feels differently. He’s felt differently ever since the day Oikawa looked at him, _really_ looked at him, with the terrifying face that shook Tobio to the core, rooting him to the ground, expressing some sort of ugliness that he had no words to understand or describe, only that it made him want to run and hide, hold out his hands and ask what he’d done. That day he’d walked home in the empty night, dazed and stunned silent. He’d come home and eaten dinner with his mother, the both of them tired in different ways, before heading to his room without a word. He’d flopped down on his bed, stared up at the ceiling, thought about Oikawa and the looming shadow of that twisted expression, so much like a curse. He thought about what it meant, he thought about Iwaizumi’s apologetic face, the hasty hand run through Tobio’s hair that was only a cursory comfort, and he didn’t think too hard on the uneasy hurt that roiled in his chest.

Up until then, volleyball had been fun, and Tobio wanted to be the best he could be, wanted to continue doing the thing that helped clear his head and made him feel useful and connected. He liked watching his senpai play, he liked being asked to eat lunch together with Kindaichi and Kunimi, and being accepted when he himself asked the same thing, and he liked being able to see his teammates and play with them each day, learning new things. Up until then, he thought there was no harm in asking for tips, in asking for help in growing.

But he couldn’t understand. He couldn’t grasp the face that Oikawa had made, the confusion and shock that had stopped him from ducking or flinching from the open palm that had flown at his cheek, he only knew that somewhere, he’d gone wrong. He’d done something to make Oikawa like that. And the very next day, uncertain of what he should do, he took the usual tentative steps, and asked Oikawa, his upperclassman, if he could teach him to serve. Again, Oikawa showed him a face he didn’t understand, mouth slightly ajar, eyes tense, before whipping his head away and acting his usual self. But things weren’t the same. Tobio wasn’t the same, he felt the shadows of the things he couldn’t understand dogging his steps, stirring in his mind each time Oikawa looked at him, each time Iwaizumi told him to ignore Oikawa’s antics.

“Hey, Kageyama,” Iwaizumi says, grasping him by the shoulder. He’s always been so nice, but distant. Everyone, everything, is distant, and this too, he does not understand, the way Iwaizumi seems to search him for something. “Hey. You’ll be great, you know. You’ll do us proud, I know that.”

Tobio nods. He can’t bring himself to smile, or cry the big blubbering tears of some of the first or second years. His shoulder feels so heavy, where Iwaizumi is holding him. Behind Iwaizumi, he sees Oikawa look at them, expressionless, before turning away.

“Thank you,” he says hoarsely, and somehow his words feel heavy too.

*

“Aren’t you excited?” Kindaichi asks him, biting a large chunk out of his melon-flavored ice cream mochi, a convenience store snack after a quick group outing to the local sports store, and a lunch of ramen. Kunimi winces and takes a much slower lick of his own watermelon-shaped pop.

“Excited for what?” Tobio replies, digging at his small ice cream tub with a wooden spoon. He closes his eyes, savoring the cold, milky taste spreading on his tongue.

“For becoming the official setter!” Kindaichi says, eyes widening, almost as if angry. Tobio doesn’t understand it. These days Tobio is beginning to wonder if he’ll ever understand anything: how to pet a cat without being scratched, how to do geometry, how to speak to people so they understand you, how one should just be.

“It’s basically decided,” comes Kunimi’s lazy almost-drawl. He bites off the melting tip of his popsicle, eyes sharp.

Tobio just scowls. “Coach hasn’t said anything yet,” he says, lets a large bite of ice cream soothe him with its cold burn. Coach has never addressed him directly before.

“Come on, everyone knows how it’s going to go,” Kindaichi grumbles, falling silent with a grunt as Kunimi digs a pointy elbow into a rib.

Next week is the start of the new school year, and with it, the start of the new team lineup. Tobio has felt the familiar hum in his muscles, the itchiness of his fingers and palms. Oikawa and Iwaizumi will not be there any longer. More often now, he feels that shadow stalking him, peering over his shoulder, asking him, _what did you do what did you do what have you done_.

“Coach hasn’t said anything yet,” Tobio murmurs again, and busies himself with his ice cream.

*

It takes a loss in the fall quarterfinals for Coach to make the switch. While his teammates head to the bus with heavy hearts, Coach has Tobio stay back for several minutes.

“Kageyama-kun, you’ll be the official setter starting tomorrow,” Coach says. “You’ve been doing well in practice matches, and you have good drive. Kitagawa is a champion school, and you’ll do your senpai proud.”

Times like these, Tobio wonders exactly what sort of senpai Coach means, since he’s just replaced one of them. He bows, says the customary thanks and rote phrases, and goes to join the rest of the team.

Just outside, his senpai is waiting for him, fists clenched at his sides, eyes rimmed in red.

“Coach is replacing me, isn’t he?” Tobio’s senpai spits. “He’s replacing me with you. Isn’t he?”

Tobio looks him in the eye, pressing his lips together. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to be a regular, doesn’t want to play in real games, but sports hierarchy is something he does understand, along with the common sense understanding that only the strong stand on the court.

“Yes,” Tobio says, unable, or unwilling to lie, a single syllable shattering the silence.

His senpai crowds into his space, sneering. “What makes you think you deserve it?” He steps forward, and Tobio begins to falter, stepping back, apprehensive.

“Do you think you’ll be the next Oikawa or something?” his senpai says cruelly, leaning in. “We all saw you last year. Toddling up to him like a stupid little duckling after every practice. Some genius you are. That’s the only thing you’ve got going for you isn’t it. You don’t need to put up a front like that, staying so late every day.”

Tobio just stares at him, rendered mute, eyes wide. What do people usually say, in situations like these? He’s only ever exchanged a customary word or two with this senpai. He’d been too busy chasing Oikawa the year before, and this senpai had never seemed too friendly, only ever looking at him with frowns and scowls.

His senpai grabs him by the collar and slams him up against the wall. “Well?!” he snarls in Tobio’s face, spittle flying. “Go on. Tell me what you really think of me. What’s it like finally being in your rightful fucking place, _genius_ setter?”

Stunned, Tobio begins to shake his head, but his senpai growls, shaking him again, choking him. “I said, tell me you _uppity little shit_ …!”

For the second time, Tobio watches an upperclassman swing a fist at him, and this time it connects. His cheek explodes in pain, but he can’t bring himself to make a single sound aside from the quiet whine that curls and dies in the very deepest reaches of his throat, stifled before it can even emerge.  

It takes Coach and two other senpai to pull the third-year setter off of him. Kunimi draws him off to the side and sits him down, first aid kit open on his lap. “Why didn’t you fight back?” he asks, looking up into Tobio’s eyes, uncharacteristically solemn.

Tobio says nothing. When he gets home, he goes to the bathroom and looks at his face in the mirror, traces the outlines of purple, black, and yellow with a careful finger. He finally understands what he’s done.

*

As Tobio takes a regular spot on the team and Kitagawa slowly recovers its reputation, he hears the word tossed around again – genius.

Tobio’s too busy to think about it; it’s not even the first time this has happened. Oikawa used to bandy it around him all the time, and when he had first entered the club, people had said things like that too. Eventually it had died off. There was no need to talk about a player that never played on court, and what did he care what people were saying about him? There are more important things.

It’s too early for the third years to leave, but many of them already have. His senpai had been suspended after Coach had caught him hitting Tobio, but in the end he’d never come back to practice. Tobio had scrambled to fill the void, trying to make the best of his limited words and inexperienced encouragement, but even when they won their practice matches and made successful plays, the team was stilted, unbalanced. Tobio couldn’t connect to them at all, and none of them seemed to want to make the time, occupied with the thoughts of high school exams. It didn’t matter to them whether or not they left several months early, their setter was already gone after all.

Their team is almost completely new now, with a third year libero and middle blocker, and the rest of the regulars composed of second years. He’s grateful that Kunimi and Kindaichi are his wing spikers, because that’s two less people that he has to adjust to, and they’re warm and familiar. Even then it’s tough going, all of them at different levels of experience, trying to find themselves in a completely new team lacking any concrete foundation or mentorship. Even Coach seems to be floundering, runs them into the ground with drill after drill, at a loss for what else to do to hammer the team into shape.

So Tobio does the only thing he knows to do, and works hard. He has to improve so many things – the arc and accuracy of his set, the power and trajectory of his jump serves, the steadiness of his receives, the strength of his block set-ups, and strategy. He needs to know what his new teammates can and can’t do so he can make up for the lack. Like Oikawa, he’s suddenly become responsible for creating and directing team’s attack strategy, and he devours all the resources he can find, reads up on volleyball strategies, trick plays, and hand signals, watches games on the desktop at home to see what he can glean from the pro circuit, whiles away the drowsy hours of class drawing possible attack patterns and running through player rotations, looking for the advantages and disadvantages of each one.

_“Do you think you’ll be the next Oikawa or something?”_

He still eats with Kindaichi and Kunimi when he can, but he always feels itchy. He can’t talk to them like he used to, he can’t talk to them like he sees them talking to the other second years. He doesn’t know the shows or the music that they like, he doesn’t know the games and only knows a couple of the comics, but not enough to comment. He doesn’t want to seem stupid, commenting on something he doesn’t actually know anything about, so most of the time he says nothing, just tries to nod along to Kindaichi’s enthusiastic ravings about his high scores, and Kunimi’s sudden musings on classroom trends and the odd happenings he’s noticed two classes over.

He’s scraping by, barely scoring over 50 points on his exams. Red covers all his assignments, so he puts more effort in to keep up, falling asleep on his desk instead of his bed, rushing to the bathroom in the morning so he can tidy up in time for morning practice. He talks to his teammates about hand signals, and they adopt a few. Kindaichi and Kunimi practice with him a little sometimes on the weekends, for an hour, maybe two, before they call it quits and snatch the ball away, and they go out for their usual finisher of ramen and convenience store treats.

“You shouldn’t worry so much,” Kindaichi says, exasperated. “It’s not like you’re the captain or anything. We’re your teammates, you can rely on us.”

“Though it would help if you tossed a little more to the right,” Kunimi says drolly, unwrapping yet another watermelon pop.

Tobio looks at them, studies their faces. They eat lunch with him, even if he can’t talk to them or understand them like other people do. They hang out with him, like now. They talk to him. They try to cheer him up when he’s down, and they patched him up when he got injured, when he was hit. There’s a swelling in his chest, and his eyes burn a little.

“I’m glad,” he says, smiling a little, “That you guys are my spikers.”

*

“Remedial lessons,” the Coach says, hands folded behind his back. “Do you know what this means, Kageyama-kun? It means less time for practice, which means a smaller chance at the spring finals.”

Tobio stands there, silent and small. He’s grown a lot in the past couple months, but whenever he’s in Coach’s office, surrounded by glass cases full of shiny trophies and medals that past teams have won, it’s hard for him to feel that new growth, that new perspective. Coach barely talks to him, only takes him aside for things like this. He wonders if Coach finds him difficult to work with.

“You might be a genius, but it seems that’s only in volleyball,” Coach sighs, and settles into his chair, producing a long and tired creak. “I’ve managed to talk your teachers into letting you do remedials during lunch. In the end, we’re a championship school after all. They know how important this is, not only for the team, but for the school.

“Kageyama-kun,” Coach says, looking him in the eye, “You were Oikawa-kun’s kouhai, weren’t you? You saw how he guided the team. That is what we need, right now. I hope you understand that.”

Tobio nods, numb. “Yes Coach,” he says weakly.

He doesn’t understand anything. He isn’t Oikawa. He isn’t a leader. It’s hard enough keeping up with Kindaichi and Kunimi. It’s hard enough, knowing what he’s done wrong.

It’s a rare night that his mother is home before he is, and they get to eat a freshly cooked meal together. She smiles at him, and he rests his head on her shoulder for just a while.

“Is it pork curry?” he asks, and his mother laughs, and pats his head. Tobio loves his mother’s curry, spicier and more flavorful than the kind he gets from family restaurants, thicker and a little closer to stew.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to add the egg!” she says, and rushes him off to get the table ready.

They’re midway through the meal when his mother asks, “How are things at school? With the team?”

“They’re good,” he says simply, and eats another spoonful of his favorite curry.

It doesn’t taste like anything.

*

Lunchtime remedials mean that he doesn’t get to eat with Kindaichi and Kunimi anymore. They’re playing through the spring tournament now, but it’s difficult. Under the stress of official matches, the team is turning in on itself. Falling apart.

Looking at their miserable 5-16 score in the current set, Tobio can’t take it anymore. The strategies, the plays, all gone to waste. Hours, whiled away.

“This is pathetic,” he says bluntly, and off to the side, he sees Kunimi and Kindaichi glance at him in surprise. “Do you want to win or not?”

“How can you say that?!” one of the middle blockers exclaims, insulted. “Just because you’re a genius and nothing takes you any effort—“

“We’re sloppy,” Tobio snaps. “We aren’t together. I have some ideas, but it will only work if you really want to win. I didn’t come here to lose. So, are you in?”

The middle blocker bites his lip, glaring, face a little red. “I don’t like your attitude,” he says, “But if we can win with your plan, I’ll do it.”

Tobio nods firmly. “Follow my sets and we can win,” he says, before telling them his observations. It’s a setter’s promise, because that’s the job of the setter. To create the pipeline to the scoring point. To bring the team together.

Kitagawa Daiichi’s team gets back on the court and regains their points. At the end of two sets, it’s their win.

The middle blocker catches Tobio’s eye, and gives him a quick nod of acknowledgement. A warm feeling in Tobio’s chest spreads all over, an unfamiliar excitement stretching his face into a weird expression.

He feels good.

*

One win isn’t enough. They make it happen, again and again, until they win finals. At home, Tobio can only look at the medal in his hands with quiet glee. He’s done it. Everything the Coach and Iwaizumi-san said – that he’d do them proud, that he’d live up to Oikawa’s legacy, that he’d help continue to make Kitagawa a championship school – he’s done it. His mother hugs him close and tight, cooks his favorite curry for dinner, and there’s even cake for dessert.

“Good job,” Kunimi says, smacks him in the back. It’s not the convenience store today, instead to celebrate, they’re out for a proper treat at the ice cream store near the shopping district. The girls in Kindaichi and Kunimi’s class have been talking about it forever, and Kindaichi, who would never admit to having a large sweet tooth, furtively suggested it as their meeting spot.

“Y-you too,” Tobio says as firmly as he can, trying to show his sincerity. “Your feints were cool.”

“You were actually kind of scary this season,” Kindaichi says, trying to get the perfect ratio of red bean and black sugar ice cream on his spoon. “All the shouting and hand signals and plays…I didn’t know you had it in you!”

“Where did our shy, baby Kageyama go,” Kunimi sighs, before stuffing himself full of taro ice cream. “They grow up so fast.”

“We were going to _lose_ ,” Tobio protests. “We didn’t have to lose. We have a good team.”

“You’re such a volleyball idiot,” Kunimi says as Tobio pouts. “But since we got a championship out of it, thanks.”

“That’s true,” Kindaichi says, grinning. “If you hadn’t started shoving us around and getting us into shape we wouldn’t have made it.”

Kunimi raises his cup of ice cream solemnly. “To our genius king,” he intones.

“I’m not a genius,” Tobio mumbles, but Kindiachi ignores him and laughs, bumping Kunimi’s cup with his own.

“To our genius king!”

*

Tobio thought third year would be better now that he’s more experienced, but it doesn’t look like it will be.

“You did a great job last year, Kageyama-kun,” the Coach says, after the first practice. “I look forward to seeing what this year will bring.”

That night Tobio runs through a good third of Aobajousai’s games from last year. Oikawa played as a regular in about two-thirds of the matches, and even on screen he is as brilliant and beautiful as ever. Watching his old senpai play again, he feels the ghost of pain in his cheek, a heaviness in his stomach. They’ve won a championship, but somehow it feels like Tobio’s still so far away.    He watches his teammates walk the halls together, and pick at each other’s lunches. He remembers the difficulty of keeping up last year, staying late to practice more, frantic scrambling to complete assignments late in the night, and remedial classes. Thinking about it makes his shoulders droop in exhaustion, but he slaps his hands to his cheeks several times, and straightens up. He’ll stay strong and see it through. Only the strong get to stand on court.

But it’s not easier at all. Now that he’s done it once, they want him to do it again. And they do have a great team. But it’s not the team that Tobio thought of, with all of them satellites, floating away. Nothing’s changed. Nothing’s been fixed. And he doesn’t know how to get them to listen, he doesn’t know how to fix this on his own. They don’t speak to him like they speak to each other. But they’ve done it before, and maybe he can get them to do it again.

He starts to push them, because they won’t do it themselves. They’ve gotten too comfortable on court, as well as in practice. He’s seen their warm-ups and he’s seen their stats. He knows they can do it.

“Come on, Kageyama, can’t you ease up a bit?” Kindaichi asks, when Kageyama asks him for another round of spike practice.

“The start of fall matches is in a week,” Tobio says, scowling. “We need to practice.”

“We can’t practice all the time,” Kunimi says quietly, from where he waits for Kindaichi at the gym door.

“Don’t you want to win?” Tobio says, frustrated. What can he say to make them stay? What can he say to get them to understand the importance of what they’re doing? What has he been doing wrong, that even after so long, that even after saying that he can rely on them, they’re so far away? They’re so scattered. Why can’t they see?

“Volleyball isn’t the only thing in life,” Kunimi says sharply, with a frown, and leaves.

*

Again, remedial lessons. Kunimi and Kindaichi have not invited him for lunch for several weeks now, so he supposes there’s no need to worry about that, at least. Coach doesn’t even bother talking to him, just gives him the stink eye during practice.

He gets his progress report the next day in class as well. He leaves it smack dab in the middle of the dining table where his mother will see it right away when she comes home.

“Tobio,” she says to him that night, running her hand softly through his hair, “You know I’m proud of you right? I’m sorry that I’m not always here, but I couldn’t have asked for a better son, really. And I know how hard you always try. This,” and she shakes his progress report, “isn’t everything. It’s important, but it’s not everything. Do you understand me?”

Tobio nods quietly but doesn’t answer, burying his face in her shoulder. He wishes he were stronger, better. He wishes he were small again, able to ask for anything, able to dream in nothing but possibilities. He feels frozen, stagnant. He doesn’t change. He doesn’t understand anything.

He’s not smart, or intelligent. People are always talking about his natural instinct, not his strategy or his playstyle. Kunimi was right, he’s a volleyball idiot through and through – and even when he thinks of his top picks for high school, he doesn’t dare say them out loud, as if they were wishes that would vanish the moment he said them. The only thing he has going for him is his sport ability, he knows testing in academically would be difficult.

It’s better, he thinks, that he not speak his doubts. He can be confident, but only in the things he knows. Thinking about future high schools is like thinking of pipe dreams, beyond him. He doesn’t want to think about it. About ruining things, taking them apart. About the things he’s done wrong.

*

They’re still winning matches, but Tobio’s already limited word choice is being shortened down to shouts of, “Be faster! Hit harder! Stay alert!”

He is running out of time. Red plastered all over his assignments and tests, sinking hopes for high school despite the hours spent after late practice pouring fruitlessly over textbooks. A team still no more coherent than it was before, punctuated by increasing clashes with Kindaichi and Kunimi over long practice hours, and his increasing certainty over Coach’s constant frowns.

They aren’t working hard enough. They won’t try. If a ball rushes deep into the opposite court during practice, no one runs toward it, even gambling on the chance that it might land inside the court line. They don’t treat practice seriously, goofing off and leaving as early as they can, doing only the minimal and nothing more. They grow upset at the prospect of losing, the only thing that Tobio can rely on them to be, but they also say that volleyball is just a club activity anyway. They won’t invest their best effort and energy.

Infuriating. Frustrating. Upsetting. Tobio doesn’t know how to talk about the burn of what feels like betrayal, the scalding of hurt. He’s here to keep his promises – he said that if they followed his sets they would win, and he’s working to keep it that way. He’s working to be the best setter he can be, because that’s what he promised, and what they wanted. But they won’t do the same. They won’t support him. They won’t try to understand him. Even Kindaichi and Kunimi, he can’t rely on them the same way anymore, because they aren’t there. The team calls him king behind his back and he doesn’t need to ask who is responsible.  But he’s not strong enough for this, he’s desperate and running on nothing, and there’s nowhere to turn. He can only keep pushing.

On one of the more inexperienced teams, there’s an orange-haired spiker with zero skill, just raw athleticism and sharp reflexes, but he chases the ball like it’s his life, over and over again, and no matter how badly the Kitagawa team pummels them, he gets right back up and tries again.

“What have you been doing these three years?!” Tobio hisses at him, hand fisted in the net, envious. If only he could play the entire game by himself. If only someone like this spiker could be on his team. If only.

But more than ever, there is no room to think of dreams.

*

_I’m disappointed, Tobio-chan_.

A short text, from a little-used number, but Tobio doesn’t even need to look at the contact name to know who it’s from.

_You don’t get to tell me that_ , Tobio wants to text back, anger, humiliation, and hurt tensing his limbs. Oikawa, who never taught him anything, doesn’t get to be disappointed. Oikawa, who ended up shadowing the rest of Tobio’s years at Kitagawa, doesn’t get to have any say in Tobio’s feelings or performance. _Tobio_ is the one who got hurt.

He won’t give Oikawa the satisfaction of a response. Tobio throws his cell phone at his bedroom wall, and punches his pillow viciously. His eyes burn and his sight flickers like he’s about to cry, but he can’t, he’s got no tears to donate to the cause. He’s still stunned, he’s embarrassed and humiliated, but he also feels a little resigned. Like some part of him saw it coming, like he felt it was something to be expected. No one was there for him after all. No one wanted him there after all. He knows what he’s done wrong and he’s done it again.

He closes his eyes, wonders if he should try to nap a little and see if he’ll think differently when he wakes. He’ll tell his mother tomorrow, once the news hits the papers. He wonders if she’ll give up on him too.

*

The rest of the year is an exercise in futility. He continues to go to volleyball club, despite the harsh whispers and rumors, because he has nowhere else to go, and because he won’t let them tuck him away like he never existed. It’s the part of him that is angry, a little sad, the part that wants to see what else will happen if he stays, what his teammates will say.

There are no more outings for ramen or ice cream, no more late night practices. He’s tapped out, just runs through the drills, watches dully as the first year setter takes his place. He doesn’t say or do anything about it – he’s hurt, but he’s not resentful. He should have known.

When he laid out the sports page the next day on the dining table for his mother, she came home early and cooked his favorite curry, and topped it with two soft boiled, miso-marinated eggs. It must have been spicier, better than usual, because it made his eyes prick with tears.

“It’s alright,” she says, reaches over to pat his head gently. “You’re alright.”

His reputation, he knows, is trashed. There will be no sports scholarships or considerations coming for him. High school is out of his reach; he doesn’t even contemplate going for Aobajousai, and he tries for Shiratorizawa anyway, more for the sake of the follow-through than anything. He’s not sure where else to look. School without volleyball would be impossible, he knows that without anyone telling him. Without volleyball, he’d be...

He flips through the volleyball magazines, the newspapers, looks for names of other schools that he’s missed. There must be other options.

_Karasuno High School: Fallen champions_ , Tobio reads, and the phrase echoes in his mind. Fallen. Not defeated. A former championship school. A spartan, notoriously difficult coach.

He wouldn’t mind regaining his bearings in a place like that, in a place where he would have to fight for the top. He likes those odds. 

 


End file.
